


We're Glad For What We've Done, Done With What We've Lost: The Sing Me Anything Remix

by zulu



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Future Fic, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm going to get this goddamn degree," she says, every time Julie asks her how she's doing, and there's something about the expression on Tyra's face that makes Julie believe her every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Glad For What We've Done, Done With What We've Lost: The Sing Me Anything Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Our Whole Lives Laid Out In Front Of Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633) by [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot). 



> Thank you to bell for betaing!

That paper was still peeping out of Tyra's bookbag when she swung the truck's door shut with a solid thunk. With one hand she tucked it deeper, out of sight, half-pouting the same way she did to blow her bangs off her face in the middle of her shift, when she daren't touch up her hair because she uses those hands to serve the food. Phil grabbed her elbow and hauled her off the floor once, into the cubbyhole behind the line cooks, and spouted off at her for rubbing her eyes, when she couldn't seem to get that Applebee's Neighbourhood Smile plastered to her face just right. She was barely keeping awake for a three-to-eleven two seventy-five minute classes that morning. Tyra yanked her elbow free from Phil's sweaty hand, wished she could sink it into his gut instead, even though he was generally a decent guy. She made what promises she needed to and snuck gulps of coffee between refilling her tables on round after round of raspberry razzle-dazzle iced tea.

Maybe by now she should have realized that Collettes don't go to college. That was beaten into her head long enough. It was five years since she got wait-listed at U of T Austin and her face still burned when she remembered storming through the registrar's office looking for something like _justice_. That kind of hope might work for Landry, who believed the world was fair, but it didn't dent the wall of sad politeness on every face staring back at her. There was no one to blame except that 1.9 in her freshman year. Collettes didn't go to college. Collettes lived on tips collected in the form of dollar bills artfully folded into g-strings, and Collettes got in the foodstamps line when things got tough, and Collettes should be damn grateful to have not one but two jobs to suck their life out of them between classes at Dillon Tech.

The aircon was struggling against the sticky heat, but it was blessed cool against Tyra's temples when she got past the greenhouse glare of the front windows. She was a minute ahead of her shift, giving her thirty seconds to pin her hair back, writing off the good tips she got when she left it loose. Sweat was already starting at her temples and running down the back of her neck and she hadn't even picked up her station yet. Purse and bookbag and that damn paper got shoved into her locker in the breakroom, which was only hers by dint of her clearing it out of junk every two days. The only guarantee against anybody stealing it is they know she's got no money, and nobody in their right mind would want a passel of notes about the Merry Wives of Windsor.

Phil hasn't started hollering by the time she's made it out front. It's a heavy night, the dull kind that pounds on any piece of hope she might be clinging to. _Regulars_\--and they all think she must be doing just _fine_, 'cause she's living out at the old Collette place, where Mindy brings in all the money they could possibly deserve. Their tips feel like a meaty pat on the back of her hand, the ones that say, _honey, at least we let you work in a _family_ restaurant, so don't you go reaching for something that's not your place_. Hell, the truck's radiator hasn't boiled over in nearly a month, so she's practically living like a Garrity now.

Tyra never thought she'd be missing Dillon High. Sixteen, seventeen, working at Applebee's, she got sympathy, she got the looks that said _well at least _one_ of them's working an honest job_. Now, hell. She's their waitress, they see her every damn day, and that gave them leave to think all she was ever gonna _be_ was a waitress. Ten percent, so that Arnold and the guys don't spit in their food, the same way people dump a handful of pennies in the collection plate just so the coins jingle for everyone to hear. Their eyes slide over her, even when they're calling _miss_, we need a refill, _miss_, this fajita's not sizzling at our table, _miss_, you best keep busting your ass if you don't want us to walk out on our bill.

The evening shift never felt quite real, not after a day spent squinting at books and blackboards and teachers' incredulous faces. _Miss Collette, if you can't be bothered to do the readings before class, then I'm afraid I can't help you._ And then all night, she rushed to the front and back, that fresh-faced Texan smile cracking her cheeks. Phil leaned back in his office chair to catch a glimpse of her. _Hustle, girl, ain't you got no hustle yet?_ She had plenty at six AM, pencil tapping rhythms on the extra-credit math work that's damn well going to pull up her English average. None now, when she was calculating bills in her head, upselling where she could, kicking a table out as polite as she knew how when they wanted to act like Applebee's was their back porch and they could nod over coffee until the twilight faded.

It was after eleven-thirty before she could joke her last table out the door, hands twitching to strangle them for dawdling. She wiped down tables, put up chairs, swept, mopped. Tyra brushed at the stains on her shirt, walking out. She'd have to throw her uniform into the musty washer at home, the one that leaked every time it was used, that hadn't had a dryer sitting next to it since it had crapped out three years ago.

September hit her in the face, walking out. Heat rose off the sidewalk, lingered in the air. The sun had set but the sky still had light in it, clear and grey. Past the smell of barbeque and sweat and the sticky ends of her hairspray, Tyra breathed in hay and horseshit, the bristly dry-yellow fall that settled on Dillon everywhere there wasn't the money to send sprinklers spritzing over football fields and lawns.

Stars were starting. Tyra climbed into the truck, started it with a kick and growling, smoky roar, and opened every window, so the wind would clean out the day's crap from her mind before she got home.

The paper slipped from her bookbag and fluttered on the ripped upholstery of the truck's benchseat. It was laughing at her. Tyra took one look at it and shook her head. She wasn't going anywhere but home.

* * *

The two-top in the corner had been busting her all night. Long-haulers just loved settling into her real-estate and slurping back coffee refills while they grunted and rattled the newspaper. The Panthers had an away-game in Odessa, leaving the place nearly silent. Sportscasters muttered on the green-tinted televisions set above the bar, the fan-blades clicked around in fluttering circles, and Tyra was the last waitress left after Phil cut Bonnie loose at ten PM. The mountain of homework sitting on Tyra's desk at home wasn't getting any shorter, and she'd be lucky to collect fifty cents above the price of the coffee.

She lifted an eyebrow when she saw who her latest customer was. Tan jacket, elbows on the table, looking nearly as tired as she was. "Hey," she said, not bothering to pull on the people-pleasing smile. Matt Saracen would see past it, and besides, he was in the same boat she was, so she'd be lucky if he could cover his bill.

"Hey, Tyra," he said, a little morose, but offering her a smile. Tyra sighed, but she smiled back at him without thinking about whether it'll bring her a tip or an oniony guy trying to cop a feel up the inside of her thigh as she was walking by. "Can I, uh, just get a coffee?"

What else? "Yeah," Tyra said. "You off?"

He nodded, more of a duck, as if she was going to murder him for taking up space. Well, most nights he wouldn't be far wrong. Since that was the most conversation anybody was likely to get from Matt, Tyra headed back to grab the coffee pot. The brew was two hours old, but she figured he wouldn't complain. When she came back, he was hunched over the table, and he moved back quickly, before she got close.

Tyra glanced at the bar, where Arnold was pretending to wash beer glasses and not so secretly watching the golf scores instead. Everyone in the building, even Phil, was counting down the last minutes before they could comfortably lock the front door and turn up the music while they cleaned. If Tyra didn't charm a tip out of Matt, then she'd be called to scrub oven black off the grill, or mop cowshit off the floor, dragged in by a thousand cowboy boots over the course of the day.

"What are you drawing?" she said, too tired to be curious, but willing to shuck what work she can by asking. Landry always said Matt was a real artist. Tyra figured that meant he liked doodling cartoons in class, probably comics with boobs. That would explain Landry's admiration, anyway. She saw him tucking a real pad of paper out of sight when she was bringing his coffee, though. Maybe the stains under Matt's nails and smeared across his fingertips aren't just dirt.

Matt shrugged, and jerkily shifted to look out the window. "Uh, nothing."

"Oh, come on," Tyra said. She took one last look for Phil, then settled across from Matt, putting the coffee pot down. Relief shot up from her pounding feet. They'd hurt even worse when she stood up again, but by then her shift would be nearly done. "I get enough nothing around here all day. Don't tell me that's all you got."

"It's not that important," Matt muttered. He hadn't touched his coffee. Tyra gave up on trying to draw him out of his shell--he was perfect, and sweet, and the nicest guy on the planet, according to what Julie always said, but that'd never been Tyra's type. She liked a guy who could at least talk for himself. Didn't mean Matt wasn't _restful_, at least.

When she looked back, Matt was doing his best not to take her in with a bunch of quick, darting looks, like she'd run out screaming on him if he stared her full in the face. "Do you, uh, do you always finish up this time?"

"Most nights," Tyra said. Probably his grandma had taught him that you make conversation with the girls that sit down across from you, no matter how awkward it was for both of you.

"Me too." Matt nodded. "Delivering pizzas."

It was Tyra's turn to nod. Julie cried over him on Tyra's shoulder after high school, even through the tumble of words when she said it was for the best. Tyra couldn't do much but hide her grimace and break out the ice cream and act as comforting as she knew how, even if she was better at it with tequila than Fried Green Tomatoes.

Bitter? Her? Oh, no sir. She'd been careful to break up with Landry for sure when he left. He spouted some bullshit about waiting for her. Tyra knew better. She never wanted his pity, and even his help became tedious when he was a senior and she was filling out second-semester applications to Dillon Tech.

Matt didn't make it out of Dillon either. The way he stared out the window with a sad-puppy look in his eyes, Tyra thought maybe he knew what bitterness was after all. Landry was out there. Julie was out there. Neither one came back for more than holidays that they spent mostly with their families, being cautious about showing up in the rest of Dillon, like it was a mudpit that might suck them back in.

What did it matter that Matt and Julie had a good thing going five years ago? Matt could've gone to college--his mom was willing to help him--but he turned it down. No matter how sweet his grandma was, Tyra couldn't see much use in him sticking around, _choosing_ Dillon even when he didn't have to.

"Look," she said finally. "My shift is almost done, and I gotta clean up..."

"Oh." Matt blinked, and stood up so fast she might've jabbed him with a pin. "Oh. Yeah. Uh, sorry." He dug into his jeans pocket for the dollar-ten the coffee was worth, but Tyra just rolled her eyes and pushed his hand away.

* * *

Turned out their shifts had synced up. By the time Matt was finished delivering pizza to every Panthers house party in Dillon, Tyra was finishing up at Applebees. When he worked nights at the Alamo Freeze, Tyra never saw him, but now he dropped in every couple of nights. He mumbled something once about his grandma already being asleep by the time he could get back, and from what he didn't say, it was obvious he wasn't easy with his mom, even after all this time. Fridays were always the most hectic day of the week, but Tyra realized around mid-October that she was actually looking _forward_ to Matt Saracen's uncertain shuffle into her station past when she thought her patience for more customers had been shot to hell. Sometimes he stayed after closing, and because he didn't bug her with questions or demands for refills, Tyra let him sit in the nook by the window and unlocked the door for him when she was done. The five minutes she could steal to sit across from him and stretch out her calves got to be personable enough that they'd nearly exchanged full sentences.

Matt kept on bringing his sketch pad, and Tyra kept on ignoring that he hid it out of sight whenever she came by. That got to be the elephant in the room. The night he nearly spilled his coffee all over her clean floor trying to hide from her, Tyra gave him Mrs. T's best fishy-eyed stare and said, "So what are you doing?"

Matt hunched up, as if he could just disappear if he scrunched small enough. Tyra raised one eyebrow, to show him just how much she wasn't going to take that excuse any more. Matt slumped, sighed, and let the sketch pad fall flat on the table.

Tyra lifted her chin and stretched her neck to look without looking, and then her mouth opened without any words ready to come out. "You're drawing _me_?"

"It's not--it's not what it looks like," Matt said. He quickly flipped the page, and Tyra saw that Paul, the longhaul driver who regularly took up near two seats when he sits at the counter, starred just as often in Matt's sketches--he wrinkles in his shirts, the crumple of his fingers around a coffee mug--as she does. "I'm just drinking coffee, so nobody looks at me," Matt says. "Makes it easier. You don't--if you mind, I could stop."

Tyra blinked, and this time she grabbed Matt's sketch pad for herself. The paper is thick and soft, the surface almost pebbly under her fingertips. No wonder Matt was going nowhere, paying from a delivery boy's salary for paper that felt like cloth. "_Why_ are you drawing me?"

"Because," Matt said, and then, tongue-tied, seemed caught on that as reason enough, which maybe it was. "Because you're--you move a lot," he said. His cheekbones flamed, and he pressed his lips together like he heard just how stupid that might sound.

Tyra snorted, nearly a laugh. "I'd be less stuck in a swimming pool full of molasses."

Cautiously, Matt reached for the pad and brings it back to the protective cradle of his arms, like it's a football and he's called a running play. "Look, I mean it," he said. It was practically the first time Tyra had heard him talk about something like he really cared. "You're always moving. You look like, like you know where you're going. I'm trying...these aren't very good," he fumbled to a finish.

"They're beautiful," Tyra said, her voice flat because it was the truth. No one's ever drawn her, or told her she looked like she knew where she was going. Even Mrs. T at her most hopeful acted like Tyra would _find out_ where she was going, eventually, once she'd made it to college. And no one's ever acted like Tyra was _art_. Everybody knows what a great rack she has, and plenty of guys have dog-whistled her on the street, saying, _hey, honey, you going anywhere after this, here's my phone number, how 'bout you call me and we can have a good time_. There's nothing of that in what Matt had showed her. Maybe none of that in Matt at all. Tyra studied him, crinkling her nose. Matt was picking at a corner of the sketch pad with one fingernail, lower lip thrust out, making him look about eight even though she knew he was only a year younger than her. His legs were stuck out straight under the table, and even so he looked like he was sorry to be taking up space. "When are you going to art school?" she asked.

"I'm not," Matt said, raising his eyes to meet hers with the kind of fierce finality Tyra knows all too well. "When are you transferring to U of T?"

"I'm not," she echoed him, startled.

"You got the transfer papers in your bag," he said. "I saw them."

Tyra snapped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes. Those papers have been in her bag for weeks, getting in her way whenever she was reaching for something else. "So, what, you're gonna get on my case about homework next?"

"No, just." Matt subsided with a mutter. "If you aren't going anywhere, I don't see why I should."

"Oh, please," Tyra says, the sarcasm hanging heavy in her voice. "At least you had a chance. Just 'cause you didn't take it--"

Matt's face darkened at that. Tyra scoffed, shaking her head. He couldn't think she'd let him off easy just because it was a hard truth to face. He made his choice. If he was sick of following through, he should try living her life. Matt was still the darling of a lot of the beer-bellied types who go gaga for a State Ring. He was a hero in their eyes, even if it was pathetic to hold on to that illusion after graduation. Not that Matt had ever courted that particular favour. "If you had wanted to leave Dillon, you could've."

"I'm taking care of my grandma," Matt said, in that stubborn voice that Tyra had now heard twice--once for art, once for family. Too bad he never got that pig-headed over Julie, or they'd probably still be together.

"I thought your mom was here now," Tyra said. She might hate was being a Collette meant in Dillon, but she'd never pretended her mom didn't exist. Matt's grandma had people to take care of her, and she was probably a lot nicer about it than asking sideways for Matt to fill the tank and get the groceries on the way home, if he could. Even if Matt was bleeding out his paycheque the same way, it wasn't with the ingratiating lie that it was all gonna get paid back at the end of the month.

Matt bent his head over his sketch pad, the thick pencil lines showing Tyra's smile-for-customers next to one of her looking tired enough and old enough to've already lived all the life she was going to get. That was Dillon for you. "That's not the same," he said, but the stubbornness had leached out of his voice. "And--and don't change the subject, all right? Don't talk to me about what _I_ want so that you can make excuses about not taking what _you_ want."

"Yeah," Tyra said, standing up and setting her jaw. She wasn't going to hang around and feel sorry for little Matty Saracen. "Thanks for making _my_ life so damn easy to figure out."

* * *

Tyra could've told Matt he'd never find anything like art in a place like Dillon's Applebee's. She would have, but it seemed Matt could sulk as well as the next guy. He didn't show up, a few nights running, even though he'd worked his damn self into Tyra's routine. Maybe he was finally out drawing sunsets or models instead of scribbling truckers' faces and thick Dillon housewives into his sketch pad. And Tyra was nothing special, a fact which maybe he'd finally tumbled to.

There were busy nights when they never said a word, when Tyra was run off her feet until all she could feel was the aching throb of her chunky black heels digging into her feet. It burned, standing up one moment after the next, and smiling through it all. She never wanted to be one of Coach Taylor's players, but it sure could feel like she was, standing up after another crunching play and pretending she didn't hurt. Other nights, when it was slow, Tyra might not go over to Matt at all, if she was trading gossip with Bonnie and Arnold, but she'd know he was there. There was no way in hell it made sense, but even that made it easier when she locked herself in her room after work with her earphones blaring music into her skull, so that she can read without hearing whatever man her mom's brought home grunting his way through his version of romance.

Tyra had brought more than a few guys home, so she had no room to judge, but she was _not_ going to end up like her mom. She was not going to pop out a kid only to find out that her sentence at Applebee's just got extended to life.

She'd be graduating from Dillon Tech this year. The transfer papers she'd carefully shoved into her very bottom desk drawer said U of T Austin would consider her request if her GPA was above 3.0, but midterms had battered her down to a struggling 3.1. She felt like she was drowning, and this semester's finals could push her under for the last time. What was the point in trying when she already knew she was gonna get nothing from this except another piece of paper just as worthless as her Dillon High School certificate?

And it had been a week since Matt had shown up. She couldn't have offended him _that_ badly. Since the place was dead for another away game, Tyra clocked out at ten-thirty, leaving Bonnie with the end of the night chores for once. The lights were still on in the Alamo Freeze, and Tyra stalked inside. Like she'd expected, Matt was behind the counter, wearing that stupid paper hat.

"T-Tyra," he stuttered, his eyes widening. "Uh, hi."

"Hi yourself," she snapped. She had no idea where this anger came from, but it was spilling out with no input from her higher brain functions. "My restaurant not good enough for you anymore?"

"That's not--it wasn't that," he said. Tyra expected him to cower back even further, eyes darting around for rescue from the empty room, but then his face split into the most ridiculous grin Tyra's ever seen. "It's your restaurant now?"

"You know what I mean," Tyra said, sweeping her hair back off her face with an impatient hand. Maybe he was a year younger than her, but--and it showed what a loser town Dillon is--but he was the only person Tyra knew from high school who was still around _and_ still human. He wasn't drinking himself to death and getting hauled off to jail for running a chop shop, like some people she could call Tim Riggins. He wasn't truly happy here, like all those rally girls who married football players and then settled down to wait for babies. And he wasn't, worse, Lyla Vanderbilt, swanning into town when it suited her, all cool gazes and tailored clothes and sunglasses, like her eyes would be burnt if she looked on Dillon for what it really was. Matt was--different. And he was the only one she knew who'd talk about Landry, and, all right, maybe sometimes she missed Landry. A bit.

"You want a ice cream?" Matt asked. "I--I can get you one for free, they're having this promotion right now. I'm the assistant manager..."

Tyra shook her head, but she found herself saying, "Yeah, okay, fine," and taking a seat in one of the plastic-moulded chairs.

Matt turned to the soft-serve machine, but kept a wary eye on her over his shoulder, like he thought she'd either escape or attack him. A few minutes later he brought her a mound of ice cream covered in caramel and peanuts--when did he find out she liked caramel?--and he sat down across from her, after a nervous glance around to see that the place really was abandoned.

"You're not at the football game," Tyra said, eyeing him suspiciously after she'd scooped up a bite of ice cream.

"Well," Matt said. "I'm working."

"You don't close up for football?" She waved her spoon in cynical celebration. "It's a Dillon, Texas miracle. Who's gonna come here tonight?"

Matt laughed quietly. "You did."

Tyra shrugged and closed her mouth around the spoonful of ice cream, swallowing slowly to enjoy eating something she didn't have to serve herself. "So I did."

They were both quiet for a minute, besides the scrape of Tyra's spoon on the plastic side of the ice cream dish. Matt tapped the table, staring off to one side as if Tyra might need some privacy alone with the caramel. "You ever thought more about filling out those transfer papers?" he asked finally, in one great rush.

So that was what he'd been working his courage up to say. "You sound as bad as Mrs. Taylor," Tyra said. "I'm four years outta Dillon High and she still wants to know when I'm going to college."

"Yeah." Matt smiled, his hesitant grin that benefited the table more than her. "Whenever they order pizza, Mrs. Taylor asks when I'll be done here."

Tyra took another bite, sucking it off the spoon to melt on her tongue, then crunching the peanuts. Maybe she could have figured out they were friends sooner than she did. It was actually _nice_, having someone with things in common with her. "You ever hear from Julie?"

She figured he'd talk to the table again, whatever his answer was. But Matt met her eyes, clear and direct. Tyra couldn't tell if it was an invitation for her to ask more questions or a warning to stay off the topic. "She's busy."

True. Tyra didn't get emails, only bright replies the odd time that she's posted to Julie's Facebook wall. Nothing made Tyra look more pathetic than her Facebook account, so she didn't use it much. "You ever call _her_?" Tyra asked, keeping her voice dry to pin Matt to the truth.

"I, I see her..." Matt's ears have coloured to a tomatoey red. Tyra smiled sharply, satisfied with his awkwardness. "She'll be home for Thanksgiving, I know."

"You should talk to her," Tyra drawled. They were friends, weren't they? He could learn to take a little teasing. She could just imagine Landry trying to defend Matt out of one side of his mouth and egg him on from the other. Wouldn't hurt anybody if Tyra took that role. Julie was her friend, too.

The hint of challenge in Matt's expression hardened. "We broke up."

"Uh-huh," Tyra said, slowing her words down to a crawl so Matt could get their full effect. "You're letting that stop you?" She gave him the benefit of a confused look. "Sounds to me like _you're_ making excuses instead of going for what you want."

Matt snorted, but didn't answer. Tyra didn't push it. When she finished the ice cream, she pushed the empty container across the table to him and sauntered out. Seemed summer was never going to end, leaving behind a hard, cracked heat that stank of tar and diesel fumes and all those wide yellow fields around Dillon that made the town stretch on past the horizon, and that diameter was growing every day.

* * *

The first Tyra knew Julie was home for Thanksgiving was when she half-threw herself over the the service counter, a wide, happy smile on her face. Julie had changed some since high school; where it seemed that Tyra always had a body five years too old for her, Julie didn't shed the last of her puppy fat until a year or two into college. Now, more than anything she looked fearless, like she knew the world was everything she'd ever been promised. Working in Portland suited her.

That didn't mean she couldn't act like they were both still sophomores when she visited. "Tyra!" she said, enthusiasm brightening her eyes. "How many of these tables are yours?"

"The way Phil's acting, you'd think most of them," Tyra said. Julie's voice had flattened out some, gotten quicker and clipped. Tyra shook her head, trying not to hear the drawl that slows her voice down like honey when she's flirting with the cowboys who sit at the counter, hoping for more than a crumpled dollar bill beneath their coffee cups.

Julie giggles, and that, now, hasn't changed at all. "So, do you get a break, or have you finally sold yourself into indentured servitude?"

"Guess," Tyra said, and there it is, that long Texan vowel. Dipthong: at least _some_thing was left over from the midterm she'd studied her ass off for. Forget it. "Come on, let's get out of here," she said she said, even though she didn't. What was Phil going to do, fire her before the supper rush?

They sat on the concrete curb behind Applebee's, Julie squinting up at the sun. It got cooler, finally, but Julie was dressed in layers like she was waiting on the next iteration of the Flood. She opened her jacket, and Tyra tipped her head back so the sun could wash over her, shivering after the heat in the kitchen. "So how's Portland?"

"Wet," Julie said, with a small, secret sort of smile.

Tyra nodded, eyebrows lifting. That answer hadn't changed since Julie left. If she didn't want to really talk--if this was nothing but a courtesy call--the last thing Tyra would do was beg for more.

Julie sighed. "Nothing changes around here."

"Nope," Tyra said, and this time, she didn't even care. She draws that word out as long as it wants to stretch.

Julie's nose crinkles, a regretful grimace twisting her mouth. "Oh, Tyra, I'm sorry. But you're nearly finished your degree!"

"An associate degree in English from Dillon Tech," Tyra said. "Yeah, I'm really going places."

"You're going to transfer, aren't you?" Julie said, concern widening her eyes.

"Julie, I am going to finish this degree," Tyra said. "After that, I'd have an easier time getting a better job than serving wings to hungry football-crazed Panther fans."

"Well, what does your guidance councillor say?" Julie waved that question aside as soon as she'd asked it. "No, what does my _mom_ say?"

Like she hadn't let Mrs. T down enough before, when she'd proved that vice principal--Mr. _Trucks_, what a stupid name--right after all. Just wasn't good enough. Mrs. T, or her ghost, kept those papers tucked in Tyra's desk drawer instead of letting her pitch them into the first available bonfire, but that didn't mean that anybody in their right mind would be betting on her chances. "You know your mom won't be happy until I'm at a place with 'university' in the name."

"It's not that she's not _happy_," Julie said. "I think she just knows you want more. You deserve it, Tyra."

Tyra hugged her knees tighter. Her ass was getting numb, and probably dusty from the cement. "Julie Taylor, it is a wonder you didn't stay here ranching cattle," she said. "Because you sure can spread it."

Julie sighed shortly, but she never failed to catch a hint. Tyra listened while she talked about Portland instead. How low and close the sky was, grey on cloudy grey, the rain that slicked the streets, how everything kept its green nearly all year round. The patter of drops on Julie's roof and sneaking through her open windows, and how she kept a pot out to catch the plinking drips. Julie's been cold since August, and there was a skiff of snow on time to delay her Thanksgiving flight. And then, how much Julie loved her job, and how it would lead to bigger things. She'd already had her byline on a few smaller pieces, one that was picked up by the wire.

Julie ran out of steam eventually, and they sit quietly for a moment. Out of the wind, the sun was still strong enough to heat Tyra's shoulders and the back of her head. "I've seen Matt around," Tyra said, when the silence had stretched the right amount. She didn't meet Julie's eyes, just let the lure fall where it would.

Julie lifted her head and gave her an ironic look that wasn't fooled for a second. "How's he doing?"

"Same." One thing you could say for Matt, he didn't go in for dramatic changes.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I'm seeing him at the game on Thursday."

Some part of Tyra always wished that Julie didn't truly love football, the way her dad taught her. Would've been nice to have _some_one around who couldn't stand it. Even Landry got sucked in to being a hero before he left. "You know, he still thinks about you." She wasn't about to let Julie's scepticism stop her.

"Oh, what, and you're playing matchmaker?"

"No," Tyra said. "I'm just telling you. Don't you reporter types try to work from all the facts?"

"It's not like he ever calls me," Julie said.

Tyra almost smiled wide enough to give the game away. Uh-huh, Julie clearly didn't think about Matt at _all_. "It's not like he has your number," she said, and then, staying casual, "So you're still interested."

"How can I know that?" Julie lets out an exasperated breath, but her cheeks are pink. "I haven't been here, really, in five years. I see him at Thanksgiving games, and that's it."

"_But_," Tyra said--there were things that Texan drawl was good for, like dragging the truth out kicking and screaming. "You're still interested."

Julie smiled brilliantly. She let her head fall back, strands of hair falling behind her ears. "All right. If I am, will you be satisfied?"

"Hey," Tyra says. "I am just an interested party. I'm not trying to get you to do anything."

"Who said anything about doing anything?"

"Nobody," Tyra agreed.

Julie giggled. "You're acting like I should club him over the head and drag him back to my cave!"

"Now, that I _would_ be interested to see," Tyra admitted. "I think he's housebroken, if you're worried."

"I am coming back here for Thanksgiving dinner after the game," Julie said, and raised an eyebrow at Tyra pointedly. "And when I do, I'm telling Mom it's open season to nag you about school."

"She's never seen it any other way," Tyra said. Much as she ought to hate it, Mrs. T has always bugged her in a very caring way.

The door banged open behind them. "Tyra!" Phil snapped, officious as a beached walrus. "You got tables, girl. Am I paying you to sit around?"

"No sir," Tyra said, rolling her eyes at Julie. Julie smiled, and gave her a tiny wave as Tyra pushed herself up, her feet barking all the more because she gave them a break. As the door closed, Julie was still staring off into the sky, and whether that was because she was enjoying having a real horizon again or because she was thinking about Matt was anybody's guess.

* * *

The aftermath of the Thanksgiving Day game wasn't pretty. The Panthers won, mainly on the strength of their defence, the offence scrambling for a few hard-won touchdowns on reverses Coach Taylor had been working into their playbook for most of November. Last week he'd been the town goat because he wasn't concentrating on the fundamentals, this week he could walk on water. Even if Tyra had been living under a rock, she would've known that by the time the fourth quarter ended, and she didn't have that luxury. She worked the dinner shift, and Black Friday, and came in for the lunch rush on Saturday when Phil called her, cussing Bonnie out under his breath out for daring to have a family in from out of state.

Matt showed up at the tail end of her usual Sunday shift, and Tyra gestured expansively at the empty restaurant. Seemed around nine PM Dillon had discovered they had kitchens of their own. Matt had probably delivered as many pizzas as Tyra had home-style turkey dinners. She took him his usual coffee, the one he never really drank, and waved to Shirley to show she'd clocked off.

No surprise that was when the door opened. Tyra rolled her eyes before she'd even turned to look. At least she wouldn't be responsible, not until seven tomorrow morning. Matt, though, winced. He'd been facing the door and saw them before Tyra did.

"Well, this is cosy," Lyla said, as the hostess led her and her date past their table. "Are you two--"

"Uh--" Matt said, looking vaguely horrified in a way that makes Tyra want to leave him twisting in the wind just a little longer. She couldn't possibly be _that_ unappealing. "We're--I'm just--"

"No," Tyra interrupted sharply. "Are you two--" She took in Lyla's bit of tall, dark, and completely predictable. He was handsome enough, and the suit was fancy, but he looked like he thought Dillon was nothing more than a hick town and he was looking forward to escaping. Just because Tyra thinks the same most of the time does not give _him_ an excuse.

"Nice to see you again," Lyla smarmed, her voice a little too precious and whiny to believe it's real. Tyra smiled tightly, and Lyla led her boytoy by the hand to the booth where Shirley's waiting for them.

Matt leaned forward to watch them go, probably to make sure they _went_. A second later, he took one look at Tyra and burst out laughing. Well, as much as Matt ever burst out doing anything. His mouth crooked up at the corners, and his eyes got lighter, and he looked like he was either going to giggle like a girl or else blush himself to death. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says. "But I don't think you and I are--"

"Ever," Tyra agreed dryly. She shook her head, dismissing Lyla and mocking her at the same time. "_Are you two still here_?"

"Why _are_ you still here?" Matt says. He flinched at her glare--Tyra could still manage that much--but it didn't shut him up the way it used to. "Isn't your shift over?"

Tyra sat back, the better to evaluate him. "Maybe I'm curious about what you said to Julie at the game."

"I said--" Matt lifted his chin to hide a swallow. "We talked," he said. "It's not that big a deal."

"Yeah?" Somehow Tyra didn't think she'd lose money if she bet that their conversation was the same one they had at the Thanksgiving game every year for the last five years. "She tell you about Portland?"

"Yeah, 'course she did. She always does."

Tyra arched one eyebrow. Not good enough. Not with Lyla's tinkering laugh sounding across the back of the booth she'd been seated in. Not with Matt still pretending he cared whether J.D. McCoy could pull out a victory over Arnett Mead. "What did she say, exactly, Saracen?"

Matt blinked, the faintest sign of a flinch. "About Portland?"

"That's right." Tyra narrowed her eyes. Matt had never looked more like a deer at a watering hole. "About Portland."

"Well--" Matt smiled his impossible lopsided smile. "She said it was wet."

"Right," Tyra said. "And did you ask when you could come by and see that little apartment of hers, that she's so proud of?"

"Uh, no, but--"

"But what?" The trick was to bark out the questions like Coach Taylor always did. He'd probably been conditioned to obedience. Tyra wondered if Julie had ever figured that out.

"What do you mean, what? She--"

God, the boy was slow. Tyra slapped her hands down on the tabletop. "She all but asked you up there!"

"She did not!" Matt's mouth worked like a fish hooked into a boat for a moment before he slumped back and broke eye contact. "And I live in Dillon."

Tyra snorted. "I'm pretty sure they deliver pizzas in Oregon."

"Tyra, I know what you're doing, and you don't have to!" Matt checked over his shoulder to see if Lyla was listening in. She had to be smirking over the two of them, while she ate in Applebee's for the small-town _atmosphere_."

"If I don't, are you ever gonna move?" Tyra hissed, leaning forward. "Your mom takes care of your grandma as well as you can, and she's just fine with her life here. You still got yours."

Matt set his lips into a stubborn line, tight enough that he could barely bite his words out. "My grandma brought me up. She--"

"Did she bring you up to sit around Dillon for the rest of your life?" Even Lorraine Saracen had to have more ambition in her heart for him. If only she'd remember that she did.

"Well--actually, yeah," Matt said, with that sudden, engaging smile. "She'd be just fine with that."

Tyra collapsed back in her chair with a scoff. "Yeah, I bet." Lord knew _her_ mother would be more than happy if Tyra kept bringing home her Applebee's paycheque for the rest of her life. Mom figured Dillon Tech was already reaching for that brass ring. She was proud, she'd always been proud, but she'd never understood why Tyra had to keep trying.

"Anyway," Matt said, tapping his fingers on the table, his voice growing both slower and louder. "Where do you get off telling _me_ to move on! I don't see you transferring and getting that business degree. You know, I bet you _could_ own this place, if that's what you wanted, and instead, you're getting an _English_ degree."

Associate degree. Tyra didn't correct him. "There is nothing wrong with an English degree."

"Except that it's not what you want," Matt said, sitting back like he'd won. Some victory.

Tyra stared him down. "So, is that a challenge, Saracen?"

Matt's eyes flicked away from hers, like she was a linebacker diving around the pocket to tackle him and he was debating which way to roll. "A challenge?"

"Yeah." Tyra reached for the bookbag at her feet. After pulling doubles on Thursday and Friday, and another eight on Saturday, she'd thought all she'd want last night was to curl up in bed and never have to wake up again. Instead she'd yanked open that bottom desk drawer, thinking about what Mrs. T had said--again--and how Julie had smiled shyly when Tyra asked her about Matt. After a semester of accountant math, filling out her _name_ and a few details hadn't even slowed her down. Tugging out the papers--a little frayed at the corners--she slapped them down in front of him. "See this?"

"Yeah," Matt said, wary now.

"Yeah. All it needs is a stamp."

Matt ducked his head a bit, as if the clock had moved back to three months ago and he'd remembered to be scared of her. "Okay, so maybe--"

"So many you were wrong," Tyra said. "So _may_be you better call Julie before she finds one of _those_\--" She pointed over his shoulder to Lyla's corporate clone. "And I'll put this in the mail."

Matt stared at her for long enough Tyra began to wonder if a dozen football concussions hadn't just all caught up with him at once. "Well--"

Tyra tilted her head.

"Well, fine!" Matt said, and crossed his arms across his chest, as if he'd just issued an ultimatum of his own.

"Fine?" Tyra asked, keeping her doubt as strong as she could make it and hiding a rush of adrenaline.

"Fine!" he said. "Let's see you do it."

The envelope came out of her bag next, and Tyra nearly gave herself a papercut licking the glue line. She wasn't going to get beaten at her own game, that was all. "Come on." Standing up, she marched out the front door, ignoring Lyla's cutting giggle the way she always had back in high school. What the hell did it matter any more? They saw each other for five minutes a year, if that, and Lyla's life didn't _matter_. Not to Tyra, and not to Matt. All that mattered was that Matt was dogging her heels, darting glances around like he was following her against his will to commit a crime, instead of to the nearest mailbox. Half a block further down, Tyra stopped at the box and yanked the slot open. Sweat sprang up on her palms, but she wasn't about to show it. Before she could think about it again, she dropped the envelope into the chute and banged the slot shut.

"You had something to say about excuses, Saracen?"

"Uh--"

"That's right, _uh_." She raised her eyebrows and stared at him, tapping one foot. Who cared if it was in nervous reaction? It might finally get him moving.

Matt clenched his jaw. For the moment he hesitated, Tyra had no idea if she'd have to follow him making chicken noises to get him to follow through, but he finally reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He watched her more than the keypad as he dialled. Tyra pinned him with the most sceptical stare she knew how to deliver until he lifted it to his ear.

"Hi, uh. Hi, Julie? It's--yeah. Hi." The smile that spread across Matt Saracen's face was like a slow Texas sunrise, and Tyra had to hold back a smile of her own, her heart beating almost as fast as his must be. "Yeah, hi, I--I'm sorry I called so late." Matt gave Tyra one last, rabbity look, and then his spine straightened, and he drew his shoulders up, that silly grin still hiding around the corners of his mouth. "I was wondering..."

Tyra laughed in disbelieving triumph, and then she left him to say what he needed while she walked back to her truck.

By Thanksgiving the next year, she was a business student freshman at U of T Austin.


End file.
